Faded Diamonds
by drama-princess
Summary: He smelled of cigarette smoke and gardenias; she was the broken beauty of the Moulin Rouge. Some things, once lost, are lost forever.


A/N: All related characters and ideas are property of Baz Luhrmann. In other words, darlings, not mine. All his. Got it?  
  
Dedicated to Twix, in hopes that she has a really lovely birthday! Here's to you, m'dear._  
_

  


**Faded Diamonds  
**  
by drama-princess  


  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  


  


_You're dying, Satine._**  
**  
It was whispered among the younger girls at the Moulin Rouge that she'd never looked into a mirror since her return. The older ones knew it was nonsense, of course. You couldn't achieve that carefully crafted look without peeping into the glass just once-- the kohl would slip, or the rouge would be applied a little too high. But no one could deny that Satine avoided mirrors.  
  
You can't blame her, ran the murmurs in between costume breaks and flushed whispers after customers. Little Lisette, called Songbird on the dance floor, left little gifts of flowers and pearls on Satine's costumes. Most the trifles come from her carelessly generous heart, but Songbird could never deny herself a glimpse of the old plumage of the matriarchal dove. The bright, patchwork colours of Toulouse-Lautrec-- a genius, history called him-- half-buried beneath faded and worn satin gowns. Newspaper clippings, damp with clutching by nervous hands. A slipper with a broken heel and torn feathers. Satine regarded her old possessions with a sort of indifferent care. She never burned the remnants of her success, as the other girls expected she might do. But then, she never so much as touched a single memory.  
  
In truth, the pale woman was more a cypher than a haunted legend of the dance hall. The hollows in her cheeks spoke to the long months in a sanatorium, while her sallow skin reminded them that she was not strong, and never would be. The near-fatal, almost-consumption had robbed her of beauty as well as wealth. The older Dogs, the ones that smoked their cigarettes almost: contemplatively, stepped aside when Satine floated gracefully down the shadowed corridors.  
  
Nini will say as she watches Satine pass. She sucks on her fag almost viciously, drawing in and spitting out the blue wafts of smoke. Her face, heavy with rouge and powder, looks almost catlike in the flickering lights of the dying electric lights. And yet she is more beautiful than Satine is. The muscles of her arm are still strong beneath the tight, ivory skin. Her breasts and belly are still firm enough to be a good lay at the Moulin. What the world'll do to you.   
  
Nini, after all, was there. She heard the sudden, dreadful hush fall over Satine's room after the doctor entered.   
  
~*~  
  
She'll die without treatment, Baby Doll had whispered. The girls were huddled together in the dressing room, silk shawls around thin shoulders, struggling to keep warm from the faint heat of the kerosene lamp.   
  
The Duke's not interested in waiting, Arabia leaned forward and lit the end of her cigarette. She coughed briefly and waved the smoke towards China Doll.   
  
Arabia, keep that away from me or I swear I'll rip your throat out.   
  
She's lucky that it's not consumption. Mome Fromage touched a thick finger to her own rouged cheek in reminder. Her blonde hair hung in loose, damp ringlets about her face. So graceful on the dance floor, and yet she lumbered from armchair to cushion with little thought of movement.  
  
It will be, if she waits much longer. Arabia said wearily, pointing a languid finger towards a case of wine. Liberty, make yourself bearable and get me a glass of wine.   
  
Oh, love, won't you pour me one too? Mome Fromage coaxed. These old bones won't stand another trip.  
  
Stupid bitch, Tarot spat from the floor. Her skirts were gathered around her waist, revealing a pair of identical bruises near her black lace garters. She took another swallow of absinthe and threw her throat back, letting the alcohol burn down her throat. Why does she get to live?   
  
Shut your mouth and give me the bottle. Pearl rose on unsteady heels and tottered over to her cousin.   
  
Why, Pearl? Tarot looked up defiantly, cradling the flask in her arms like a child.   
  
I want a drink, that's why. Her fingers flicked out and she smirked. You think you're the only one allowed to be drunk and miserable?  
  
How much money do you think it will cost? Baby Doll ventured another question. Her slim fingers were tangled in the threads of a fraying skirt.   
  
All she's got. Nini replied dryly, plucking the cigarette from Arabia's hand and taking a slow drag.   
  
A low whistle.   
  
That's a lot of diamonds.  
  
Eh, watch, she'll bounce back and be stringin' another rich man along. You don't have to worry about her.  
  
Nini wondered, sometimes, when she was drunk enough, what would have happened if they had worried. She wasn't one for a conscience. But she couldn't help but wonder.  
  
Would she have returned looking like the devil had spent the night with her, her red hair dank and lifeless against her bony shoulders? Had they written, and sent a few francs and a box of sweets, would she have come back wearing a dark, coarse dress and a lifeless expression?   
  
Eh, not that it mattered, Nini decided, tipping back a glass of wine and swallowing. She sent a lazy smile over at the formerly nervous youth who sat next to her. He was gently stroking her shoulder and making his way inside her corset.   
  
What's your name, sugar? he asked, his lips dipping down to the nape of her neck. She smiled, tolerantly, and set the glass down. Time to get to work, then. Satine got enough to get by. They all did, in these days.   
  
What's your favorite name? she asked, casting a sultry glance under her still-thick eyelashes. The boy smiled, and shifted her so that she lay curled next to him.  
  
I think I like Christine.  
  
~*~  
  
Can I help you? Satine asked wearily, coming to the door in her tired silk dress. The man standing before her looked slightly lost in his fine suit-- probably on his way to the Red Room to be entertained by the sleek young beauty Delphine. He was too handsome to be her client for the night-- men that age did not tarry with thirty-eight year old broken beauties.   
  
the man said tentatively, clasping his hands behind his back. Are you Mademoiselle Satine?   
  
she replied simply, shifting her arms to rest around her waist. The man flushed slightly.  
  
I was told-- told to meet you here? he said carefully, looking everywhere but her slim form. She closed her eyes and shook her head at her own stupidity. Of course.   
  
Yes, yes, I'm terribly sorry, she said immediately, backing away to let him into the small room. Come in, Monsieur, I'll get you a glass of wine. Forgive my--  
  
No, no, he murmured, and she caught a definite trace of a foreign accent in his soft voice. Forgive me, Mademoiselle. He stepped into the room, casting a quick glance about him. She was suddenly, achingly aware of the shabby coverlet, the half-burned candles, of her own tired and wasted body beneath the gown. How far had she slipped, to feel guilty about taking a man's money in exchange for her love? And he'd ben so generous to her, paying for an entire night's worth and the elegant dinner before her. Her wages rarely paid for more than cheap wine and day-old bread. Her mouth watered slightly as she watched him pull out a chair and pour her a glass. She'd not eaten meat in several months.   
  
He turned around, gesturing to the chair. Please, Mademoiselle, he said gently. He took her hand, drawing her into the chair. Her shoulders fell with a slight relief, thankful that they would be eating before the meat turned cold and the champagne flat. She smiled up at him, aware of the pathetic emotion behind the gratitude, but not really caring.   
  
she whispered, trying desperately to keep her eyes aware from the beef. You are welcome to call me Satine, Monsieur.   
  
He cut her a generous slice, arranging it carefully around the greens and the delicious sauce. Merci, Mademoiselle Satine. His green eyes flicked up to meet hers, laughing softly. She gave him a shy smile in return, the nervous tapping of her fingernails subsiding as her wine glass clinked against his.   
  
To the night, she proposed, her eyes fixing on his for the first time. She felt oddly at ease in his presence. Perhaps it was his kind manners, or his francs that weighted down her starving purse. . . or perhaps it was the way his eyes did not follow the curves of her form, demanding access, but smiled into her face.   
  
I hope you will forgive me, Mademoiselle, he said a few minutes into the meal. If I do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I am . . . not acquainted with the rules of this world. He flushed, and dropped his head. I do not mean. . .  
  
Monsieur, you have been perfectly kind already, she assured him, placing a light hand over his. He rubbed a thumb lightly along her skin, smiling a little ruefully to himself. You are not originally from France, are you, Monsieur? she inquired after a moment. He shook his head.   
  
No. . . he said, releasing her hand and taking a bite of the meat. I was born and raised in England, but I came to Paris under my aunt's patronage to be a writer. She was afraid I would become involved in Montmartre's Bohemian movement. . . His voice trailed off and something terribly sad seemed to come into his eyes. She wondered, idly, if he was a father. A consequence, I suppose, of being with your family.   
  
Are you still a writer? Satine asked tentatively, sipping at her wine. Customers usually didn't appreciate you poking into their personal lives. But something in her, she supposed, was so starved for some human contact. . . for some sign that she was more than a pair of open legs. She'd fallen into the pit of the courtesan's hell, a place where diamonds meant nothing and a quick smile everything. They were the dregs of this society, the ones who'd played the game and lost. He smiled wryly in response.   
  
I suppose you might call it that.   
  
Oh-- if you do not mind me asking, Monsieur-- It was a ridiculous question for a whore to ask, but the girls of the Moulin were known for not kissing and telling. At any rate, who was there to inform? She was no star.  
  
he supplied, pouring her some more wine. Christian Claremont. Her mouth opened comically, and she sank back into her chair, staring at him. His novels-- the battered, torn copies of his words-- had served as food, drink, and lover to her over the years in which she had discovered them. The critics hailed him, although some suggested that he might have better served the Bohemian movement than the literature of the bourgeois. She had not cared. His words fairly tingled with magic. Of truth, of beauty. And not love; there were no reminders of true love that had passed her by. He wrote of love, but it was the unfaithful sort, the sort that led a woman to quiet suicide in a damp flat. And yet hope permeated his books. He was young, in his soul. He was a dreamer.   
  
Christian Claremont? The author of _A Simple Story _and _Aspects of a Woman's Heart?  
  
_He smiled shyly, almost proudly. Oui, Mademoiselle.   
  
Her breath came in short gasps, and she felt the colour rising to her cheeks. Oh-- Monsieur-- your novels have meant so, so much to me. . . She pressed a hand to her mouth. I know this will seem poor praise to you, but--  
  
On the contrary, he broke in, now fully relaxed in her company. He smiled, and she realized with a pang how handsome his face was. It had undoubtedly earned him much, that open beauty. His eyes pleaded for trust, his sensitive lips asked for love. It is great praise indeed to hear such a sentiment from you.  
  
Oh, please, she said on sudden, savage impulse. She spoke quickly, her hands rapidly gesticulating as he watched. Do not let us be so formal, Monsieur. Your stories. . . they are all that have kept me alive during these years. I am taking advantage of your wonderful kindness, but I must tell you of this in the words of a friend--  
  
And not a stranger, he finished. It is no difficulty on my part. But, Satine, you must call me Christian.  
  
she said softly. Her eyelashes fell to her cheeks. My voice. . my voice has been ruined by consumption and cigarettes. She looked at him with a strange, girlish pride. He caught a flash of the woman he could have been. The star he had heard rumoured in the streets in his youth. Was that why he asked for her? Although it was beautiful once, she continued. She cast him an arch, almost triumphant glance. As was I.   
  
You still are-- he began to assure her, but she shook her head.  
  
You are very kind to say so, Christian, but, she hesitated, but continued speaking. He could see as well as she, the depths to which she had fallen. Her voice was low, and a little harsh. He could see the slender young woman as she spoke. The fiery curls, dangling tantalizingly near that white hollow in her throat, seemed to dance before him. I was once the star of the Moulin Rouge. They loved me. I was thrown diamonds, handfuls of francs tossed away as if worth nothing.   
  
And men died for love of you, he finished, his eyes tracing her face and form. She knew what he would see. The limp curls tied against her neck, still smelling of the oil and heated curlers she'd wrapped her hair around. Her face, those pale lips and cheeks falsified with rouge, so tired and unhappy. And further down was her withered waist and her bad leg, the one that swelled when the streets gleamed with rain. But hidden in her ruined body were the remnants of a former beauty. It was her only remaining glamour, and one she knew to use. She wore old-fashioned clothes and smoked old-fashioned cigarettes, standing in the shadows, watching the right kind of men with hooded eyes. She told her story, inventing careless lovers and a horrified virgin sunk into the world of the Moulin Rouge as the men's eyes grew satisfied and their hands began accidentally slipping into places they were not allowed.  
  
she said quietly. Her eyes shifted for a moment, and she drained her wine glass. Well. They certainly aren't dying now, are they? Her voice was rich with imagined affront, like a wealthy woman whose diamonds have not been properly admired. She almost regretted doing it, introducing the comedic element to the scene. It was like bringing in a Clown into Romeo and Juliet. There was something so ludicrous about love, though. The sweat-stained, grasping reach for temporal ecstasy. His eyes seemed to agree.   
  
His lips, though, only quirked in a sad smile. She smiled back, almost unwillingly. They'd see it through, then.   
  
I thought not, she said rising and taking his hand. she said softly in response to his puzzled look. We'll turn the lights off, and see what we can do tonight.  
  
Inside the bedcurtains he seemed almost lost, reaching out for the clasps of her dress tentatively, his fingers shaking as he carefully undid the corset. She almost spoke, to urge him that he was doing fine. But there was a sense, a feeling about the whole match. There was a faded imprint on his ring finger. She wondered about his wife. Who was the pretty young thing wed to him? She had a sudden vision of a girl, only a few years gone from being a mere child. She would have dimpled flesh and masses of yellow hair down her strong white back. And like a child, she would pick and drop expensive toys for the delight of hearing them break.   
  
He was no stranger to a coupling, though.  
  
When she was undressed, and waiting, pliant, in his arms, then she couldn't resist speaking. His face was white, but his eyes drank her in, and she felt a small thrill of vanity. The candlelight cast a faint glamour over the whole scene, sending little shadows flying haphazardly over their skin. She couldn't resist the lure of touch, either, slipping into his arms. Her hands touched his chest gently, brushing the light scattering of hair and learning the feel of him. The skin underneath his fingernails were stained with ink. The rain began to fall outside.   
  
Don't be afraid, she whispered, her face buried in the curve of his shoulder.  
  
Not now, at any rate. he answered. He kissed her damp curls, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Strange kisses, ones that took and left something in return, like an exchange for seeds for flowers in the soil. She felt her tongue inside his mouth, and tasted the wine and faint traces of smoke and gardenias. She thought of him dressed in his shirtsleeves, bent over a typewriter, a cigarette rolling idly from his fingers. A strange wave of pleasure ran through her belly, and he knew to _reach_ out for her then. She ran her fingers through his thick hair as he, very gently, placed a single kiss on her collarbone. She wanted to cry out--  
  
Don't leave me in the morning, Christian, I can't bear it, not again--  
  
But of course that was nonsense.   
  
The sheets rumpled beneath their limbs, her long ivory legs sprawling out over the woolen blanket.   
  
And downstairs, someone began to play the piano.  
  
_End._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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